Or is he already here?
My breathing is loud and ragged, matched only by the beat of my heart. The snake’s tongue flicks out, as though tasting my fear on the air. It shakes its rattle again, a little louder this time.
Every magical kingdom has its monsters.
I should crawl away and run for all I’m worth, but some stubborn spirit has taken hold of me, and I remain where I am, staring into its cold, black eyes.
Thunder cracks so loud it shakes the ground and makes the trees shudder. The snake turns its head and begins to move away, its long body slithering soundlessly over the wet pine needles. I watch until it disappears into a gopher tortoise’s hole, its ominous rattle fading into quiet. My whole body feels like a held breath.
When I turn my face back to the treetops, a gust of wind rocks the highest branches, sending pine needles floating down to coat me with the rain. I get to my feet and walk slowly through the storm-whipped woods toward home.
I’ve lived with ghosts my whole life, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt haunted.
Another rumble of thunder vibrates through my body a few seconds before lightning scatters across the sky. I’m too tired to run, but I walk fast in the direction of the trailer. I hear Jesse’s voice before I see a break in the trees.
“Shady!” he yells from the trailer’s front door, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind and rain. He’s waiting by the front door when I reach it, a towel in his hands. “One of these days you’re going to get struck by lightning, you know.” His eyes are wide and worried.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m always fine.” My whole body trembles, but I feel as electric as the sky. I don’t know why, but Daddy’s out there in the woods, and he’s calling to me.
Four
One week later, on Friday night, Orlando, Sarah, and I are piled together in his car, driving over to the café in Kellyville for the open mic. Sarah makes us listen to “Elvis Presley Blues” on repeat, as if we can absorb every ounce of Gillian Welch’s talent and then spill it out onstage.
Orlando drums the steering wheel with nervous fingers, and I keep turning in my seat to look at Sarah. With my daddy’s ghost so close to me, I’ve barely been able to think about the open mic all week, but now that the night is here, it all feels so much more real. We’re going to get onstage for the first time and compete with other artists. I wish my heart were in it the way Sarah’s is, but I haven’t been able to shake the fiddle in the woods, the shadow man in my dreams, the feeling that something big is coming—something besides a trip to a recording studio. I haven’t heard the music in the pines again, but I know it’s out there, waiting for me.
Jesse spent the last several days watching me with wary eyes. Each time I came in from the woods with my fiddle, he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but instead just closed it and turned away. Sarah and Orlando can tell something is off with me too. At our last practice yesterday, I fumbled so many times that Sarah got angry and Orlando had to make terrible joke after terrible joke to diffuse the tension. They’ve both started to study me the same way Jesse has, like I’m a string out of tune, frayed to the point of breaking.
Now, as we get closer to the café, I force my thoughts back to the open mic. I need to stay present tonight, need to stay here, with Sarah and Orlando. I can’t let them down.
The parking lot is already packed with cars and pickup trucks, and we have to drive way down Main Street to find a spot. The noise inside the café is deafening. People mill around with drinks, yelling to be heard over the awful country pop music pouring through the speakers. This café used to be small, but when the thrift store next door went out of business, the owners knocked down the dividing wall and turned it into a huge event space. The open mic nights attract all kinds of musicians, but there is a heavy country-western influence. There’s a girl honest to God yodeling somewhere behind me. I crane my neck to see who it is but can’t locate the source. Orlando hears her too and cracks up laughing.
“A little too hillbilly?” I ask.
Orlando shakes his head wonderingly. “My grandpa in Miami would love this,” he says. “I wish he were here.” His face falls for a moment, but then he catches sight of his family coming through the door. “Be right back,” he says, hurrying toward them. I wave at his mom, dad, grandmother, and two brothers, feeling jealous of Orlando’s big, close family when my own is so fractured. I know that’s not fair—Orlando misses his Miami relatives so much, and his extended family has been fractured too—half of them in Cuba, the rest spread over Florida.
“Did you invite your dad?” I ask Sarah.
“God, no,” she says. “I’m nervous enough.”
“Yeah,” I agree, turning back to the empty stage. My head starts to pound and my hands grow sweaty. I can’t believe we’re performing for the first time in front of this many people. I need some space, some air. “You try to find seats, and I’ll get drinks,” I say, handing my fiddle to Sarah. She nods mutely, as overwhelmed by the crowd as I am.
The café side of the building is a little quieter, and my panic starts to fade while I wait in line.
“I swear to God, Cedar, if I hear a single bro country song, I’m gone,” a girl’s voice says behind me. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
I glance back and see Cedar and Rose Smith standing with their heads close together. Rose sees me looking and narrows her eyes, so I turn back around fast.
Cedar and Rose are twins who go to my high school. They’re on the wealthier end of the farm-kid spectrum. Rose is probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in real life. I mean, most girls are beautiful in their own way, but Rose is ridiculously beautiful. Long, dark, wavy hair, eyes so brown they’re almost black. A perfect little nose. A tiny waist even her loose peasant blouse can’t hide. I’ve heard rumors that she’s gay, but she’s famously ruthless, so I’ve always steered clear of her.
“We’re never going to be able to grow the band if we don’t come to stuff like this and meet people,” Cedar says. “All the musicians we know are, like, seventy years old.”
With his long eyelashes and big green eyes, Cedar’s about as pretty as Rose is, but he’s also got this tough-guy cowboy act—a combination that makes girls watch him everywhere he goes. Even at school, he usually looks like he just walked off the stage at the Grand Ole Opry, and tonight’s no different. He’s got on a black cowboy hat and a black, Western-style shirt with red flowers embroidered on the shoulders and pearly buttons running down the front.
“I like old people,” Rose grumbles.
I don’t hear the rest of their conversation because it’s my turn at the counter. But I watch them while I wait for my order. I can’t help but shake my head at Cedar’s outfit, but I also can’t help but smile when he does—I like how his eyes crinkle at the corners. He seems nicer than Rose, even though he hangs out with Jim’s obnoxious son—my stepbrother—Kenneth. They’re both friends with all the boys who drive giant trucks and wear cowboy boots all the time.
Cedar turns just in time to catch me staring at him, no doubt a dreamy half smile plastered on my face. He winks at me when he and Rose pass by, sending an embarrassed flush straight to my cheeks.